Mandy Nolan

There’s super-offensive content making its way around the internet by someone who is NOT Indigenous and is NOT a comedian. I will not say her name. I will not identify her nor will I describe the content. If you think you know what I am talking about: good. And if you don’t: good. Let’s keep it that way.

Last week an old friend of mine died. His name was Gary Cook. We met here in Byron Bay, when I was 23. He would have been in his early 30s. He was handsome. And funny. And weird. And self-involved. He used to come to Ringos, where I worked as a waitress. He’d sing to himself, bludge cigarettes, and shine up the serviette holder. He loved looking at himself. He’d laugh and say, ‘God, I’m a handsome man,’ and then he’d laugh this really infectious laugh

A few months ago I shared a 30-second video on my socials of Old Men Dancing. They’re a small ensemble of, you guessed it ‘old men’ who meet on Mondays at the Drill Hall under the choreography and inspiration of dance teacher Kimberley McIntyre. I had invited them to open my Byron Live show with their interpretation of ‘Under Pressure’. It felt right. In a failing patriarchy, men are under pressure. So why not share the gift of interpretative dance?

Everyone needs their ‘people’. They are the people who get you. They might share your values, or have shared experiences. They don’t judge you. These are the people you can ‘unmask’ for. When you sit with your community, you have a sense of belonging. That belonging is what you use to navigate the other parts of your life where you often don’t belong. Belonging is your compass. And we all need a compass.

There is a story that we need to know. A great spirit who moves on the breeze. Who rests on Bundjalung country. Not that this fiercely visionary woman rested much! This woman of goanna and turtle dreaming who belongs not to one place, but to all places. All nations. Who dedicated her life to her community with compassion informed by powerful political advocacy.

Not everyone gets the opportunity to have a voice. Especially a woman like me. I can have extreme views. Or at least views that aren’t shared or supported by mainstream media. I can upset people. A lot. I am emotional. I am unpredictable. I don’t write in a regular way. Sometimes I’m journalistic and factual. Other times I’m personal and reflective. I can be ironic or gross. Or offensive. I can be sincere one week and stupid the next. Sometimes it’s a moral rant, other times it’s a political one. Sometimes it’s both. I sometimes get it wrong. Not much. But sometimes. I’m a feminist. I’m irreverent. I swear. I’m overly self reflective. I’m woke. And sometimes I’m not.

A CNN investigation revealed an illicit website instructing men how to rape their wives received 62 million visits. On the site men shared tips, images and videos related to the abuse of women including how to drug and incapacitate them. This included Telegram channels with British men engaged in the same. This was visitation in one month. February. The shortest month.

I am in Melbourne, and as I write this, public transport is free for April. That’s statewide. It’s a small but powerful way to make an impact on the cost-of-living pressures on a community now also facing high fuel prices. The same happened in the Byron Shire over Easter – with free buses running to take the pressure off the roads.

Be kind. Two simple words. Profound in their simplicity. I have been thinking about kindness a lot lately. The sharp edges of a world where fast fashion and fast fascism are imploding is not a space where kindness abounds. Kindness is on its knees begging at your feet, but I don’t see her. I’m too angry to care. There is yelling. Finger-pointing. Blame. Anger. Violence. Coercion. Alienation. Othering.

‘Be cheaper to fill up with cocaine’. That’s what a bloke says to me while I pump petrol. I laugh. It’s funny because it’s true. It’s also my joke being repeated back to me which makes it funnier. Or maybe it’s not my joke. Maybe it’s something people say, and I just said it, so I think I made it up.

Today I write to honour Rhoda Roberts. Widjabul Wieybal woman of the Bundjalung nation, cultural powerhouse, storyteller, knowledge holder, activist, arts executive, performer, advocate, and SBS Elder in Residence.

And the grief is big. Anger. Sadness. Blame. Finger-pointing. Before you start pointing the finger at Bluesfest maybe it’s time to point the finger at...

It seems ironic, that in a life where so many of us have strived to be remembered, the real challenge, the greater subversion, is in fact the opposite: the right to be forgotten. And here in Australia, we don’t have the statutory right to erasure like they do in the EU, which means it’s pretty standard for private information about you to be easily found by third parties through search engines.

Are these end days? It certainly seems like it.

I loved Wuthering Heights. The book, and Fennell & Robbie’s film. I don’t write film reviews, in fact, never, but after observing some of the negativity slamming this contemporary reimagining of the Emily Bronte classic, I wanted to share my view, as someone who watched it with the fresh eyes of my 16-year-old daughter.

A few weeks ago a trans woman told me she was a big Pauline Hanson supporter. WTF. How can a trans woman feel she is anyway represented, or safe, with One Nation? The same woman who teamed up with Holly Valance to release a parody version of Valances’ previous ‘hit’ (can we even call it that?) that mocks poor people, LGBTQ+ youth, women and the trans community.

I have always found Valentine’s Day weirdly performative. The idea that a prescribed day could be dedicated to expressing your love. With flowers. Or chocolate. Or champagne. Or diamonds. Yuck.

‘Hot enough for ya?’ Where I grew up that was how people greeted each other on a sweltering summer’s day. It was a tongue-in-cheek way of saying it’s hot, can you take it? Is this the heat you ordered?

I love Australia, but I don’t love Australia Day on 26th Jan. I don’t love that it is about a flag with a Union Jack on it.

I have never been so proud to call myself a writer. To belong to a group of people who support a targeted colleague, who mobilise quietly with integrity and solidarity. Without self-interest. A group that has moral courage when our elected leaders and our decision-makers seem to have none.

When I was a kid we used to swim in the river. Local waterways were full of fish and yabbies. We’d grab a giant inner tube from a tractor tyre and eight of us would fight to stay on the slippery surface. It was the closest thing we had to technology.